Frankly, I don't know
when to
begin this incoherent, rambling tale. I could begin with Frederick who,
according to the earliest records, spelled his name Froelich, and who
left
some tracks around Rowan County, North Carolina as early as 1720. And
there
appears to have been a Frederick II who settled in Castlewood and
received
a grant from Patrick Henry for three tracts of land on Clinch River.

Or I could
start
with one Frenchman by the name of De Tebuef who owned an empire
stretching
from St. Paul to Wise, and empire mortgaged to the State of Virginia
for
600 pounds. As is well known the Frenchman got murdered, the State
foreclosed,
and my father acquired 65 acres of the De Tebuef real estate about
three
miles east of Wise. And that's where I was born in 1889.

Or we could
start
with the year 1875 when my great grand pa Andrew bought 399 acres on
Bear
Creek between Ramsey and Wise for $50.00, which comes to about 12
«
cents an acre. Of course Grandpa Andrew didn't have $50.00, but, as is
the fashion nowadays, he gave the Commissioner, George Kilgore, three
notes
for $16.66 2/3 each. Andrew must have been a very frugal and
industrious
man for it took him only four years to raise this $50.00. On May 26,
1879,
he paid the entire amount in full. That meant a lot of "sang" and
tallow
and beeswax.

But let's
go back
to that 65 acres and the year 1889. For the next three years we lived
there,
my memory is vague and hazy. A world seen through an early morning fog.
I am not certain whether I remember dimly the events and scenes or
whether
I remember what I have been told about them. In any case, there was my
Pa hewing cross-ties with a broadaxe for the new railroad coming into
Norton.
And there was a yoke of oxen and their names were Buck and Baldy. Theyhauled the cross-ties for Pa, and they
pulled
the sled loaded with wood for the fireplace. There were people who had
less than we; we had Buck and Baldy, an axe, a baker and lid, a pot and
pot hooks. It is even probable that Pa owned a rifle, but I have no
proof
of it. We must have had a cross cut saw, a knot maul, some wedges and
gluts
(how else would we have made the rails for the fences); and then we had
a pegging awl, a sewing awl, a shoe last, a froe, a drawing knife; andit is pretty certain we had groundhog
hide
for those shoe strings.

It would
take too
long to detail the events that took us from Wise County to the lower
end
of Lee near the Tennessee line, and how we (that is, my grandpa, his
sons
and daughters, including my Pa) stepped down several rungs on the
ladder,
from small, subsistence land owners to tenants or sharecroppers on
North
Fork; that is to say, the North Fork of Clinch River.

When I
started to
make these notes there wasn't much I could remember about North Fork.
And
then the hazy past began to clear; there were the Knocking Spirits at
the
home of one of our neighbors. Tables would rock back and forth and move
about the room. The laws of gravitation were suspended and objects in
the
room would drift about through the air. There was much speculation,
amazement,
not to say consternation, prevailing in the neighborhood. The man whose
home was all but knocked to pieces was Dr. Rufus Kyle for whom
Kylesford
was probablynamed. He had a daughter by the name of
Minnie
who appeared to be an innocent bystander; but, if the spirits needed
any
assistance, it was believed that Minnie rendered it by means not too
obvious
and which only Minnie and the Spirit understood. I have reached the
conclusion,
based on a considerable amount of investigation, that the spirits,
whether
the knocking or some other variety, have no evil intent. It seems they
occasionally tire of living in a twilight zone of obscurityand, having a streak of egotism or
exhibitionism,
just want to cut up a little and attract some attention. And when they
can find a like-minded individual who is willing to cooperate and act
as
a medium or assistant they put on a free show for a few weeks to
confound
the natives and have a little clean fun...

And then
there were
the log rafts that were floated down the river to Chattanooga, I
believe,when
the spring tides came.

On
week-ends the
stillness of the night would be broken by singing and laughter and
pistol
shots; some of the neighbors, Pa said, going home from Bill Green's
grocery
down on the Tennessee line where they had gone for a charge of liquid
happiness.
Grocery was a euphemisms for a business conducted more or less
serreptiously
by Green.

I suppose
people
who are not handicapped by very much impediments move rather
frequently,
and so did we. After two or three years on North fork we moved to
Blackwater
looking for greener pastures and a new landlord by the name of Burdine
Carter. Burdine was a rich man. It was easy to tell he was rich; his
house
had been painted and his wife had a cook stove.

When I was
about
seven years old, my Pa shelled a turn of corn, threw it up on Old
Kate's
back, lifted me up on top, and told me to take it up to Joiner's mill
house.
When I got about a mile up the road the turn fell off. I tugged at it
with
all of my seven year old strength, but I couldn't get it back on Old
Kate.
I hitched her to the rail fence and ran back as hard as I could tear. I
told Pa what had happened and he said, "Why didn't you ride the mare
back?"
I said, "because I could runfaster than the mare."

There was
an interesting
hole under a stump in the new-ground above the house. The entrance was
worn hard from constant use. Fred and I set a trap. We were about ten
and
six. The next morning we hurried up the hill to investigate. There was
a polecat. The odor is gone but the memory remains. We skinned him,
stretched
his hide over a board which we hung up on the side of the smokehouse to
cure. After a few weeks we sold it to Roscoe Robinette for enough cottoncloth to make us both a pair of
britches,
the first we didn't inherit from Pa via Elbert.

After Buck
and Baldy,
the next in line of succession was a mule named Beck. Beck was
rebellious,
temperamental, independent and obstinate. It couldn't be said that the
relationship that obtained between Pa and Beck was exactly harmonious.
If Pa started to ride Beck to the mill house, a sort of tacit
coexistence
prevailed until they got as far as a hitching post in front of the
house
of a neighbor where old Beck had been hitched on some previous occasion
and she could see no ethical reason why she should not be hitched at
the
same post again. And if Pa wouldn't hitch her and fraternize with a
neighbor
for awhile - well, she could be just as obstinate as he was. If Pa got
her by that post it was only after an effort that left them both in a
state
of sweaty exhaustion and a seriously strained relationship. She simply
refused to work; and she could not be persuaded either by the club or
carrot
stratagem. Many a time I have seen her kick herself free of the
singletree
and make-shift harness and look at Pa, eyeball to eyeball, with a
disdainful,
triumphant expression on her face.

After Beck,
there
was a horse named Andy, Andy was ancient, decrepit and mangy. He was
weak
in the knees and would fall occasionally and toss you off his back over
his head. His eyes watered, his hip bones stuck up and his lower lip
hung
down. He had been retired and was drawing his social security int he
form
of fodder and a few nubbins. One day I said, "Pa, let's sell old Andy,"
and Pa said, "O. K., go ahead and sell him." I said, "How much do you
want
for him?"Pa said, "$50.00." I groomed him up as
best
I could, saddled him and rode to Duffield...thence to Ward's mill,
through
Lovelady Gap, down Wallen's Creek, to Stickleyville, over Powell's
Mountain
to Pattensville and back home without being able to find a buyer. After
six months had passed, I again said, "Pa, let's sell old Andy," and Pa
said, "O. K., go ahead and sell him." "How much do you want for him?"
Paid
said, "25.00." I retraced my steps, covering the same 25 miles and
again
came home about dark. We were both weary and discouraged. After another
six months or so, I said, "Pa, let's sell old Andy," Pa said, "O. K.,
go
ahead and sell him." "How much do you want for him?" And Pa said, "Just
don't bring him back." A mile or so east of Stickleyville I met a pack
peddler. It was a hot day and he was staggering under a heavy load. I
didn't
bear around the bush. "How about selling you this horse to carry that
load
on?" I said. "I don't have any money to buy a horse," he said. I
countered
with, "Well, what have you got in that pack?" He opens it up and
spreads
out his merchandise under a walnut tree. The negotiations were tedious
and long drawn out, but when they were concluded, I have a collar
button,
a silk handkerchief, a pair of gloves, and a pair of galluses, and he
has
old Andy.

This
discourse wouldn't
be complete if I failed to mention the grindstone to which, for some
reason,
I developed a pronounced antipathy. My antipathy for the grindstone and
my Pa's predilection for a sharp axe seemed to balance exactly. His
penchant
for a sharp axe or scythe amounted almost to an obsession. When he
said,
"Ed, come turn the grindstone." I knew my day was ruined, for he never
knew when to quit when he started to sharpen a tool. "Pa, don't you
think
that's sharp enough?" He would feel the edge with his thumb, "Not
quite,"
he would say,and I knew I was in for another hour.
If
I were asked to name the great benefactors of the human race, I would,
unhesitatingly, include the man who invented the electric grind rock. I
am quite sure he grew up on the farm and had a Pa like mine with a
strong
aversion to a dull axe. If, at seventy-four, I have a stronger grip in
my hands than one fifty years younger, it is because I was so
continuously
attached to the grindstone crank, the hoe, the mattock, the axe and the
plow handle.

It
certainly wasn't
my granny that Walt Mason had in mind when he wrote: "And my dying
Granny
made me take a vow that I'd never, never toil with the nerve destroying
soil; that I'd never risk my life behind a plow. For her uncle's
brother
Jules, walked behind a pair of mules plowing up a fertile meadow by the
sea; and those mules reached out behind with their heels and knocked himblind, and my granny feared a kindred
fate
for me."

My Pa was
not an
educated man. He had little time either to acquire an education or to
avail
himself of its benefits. He could read, given sufficient time, and he
could
sign his name but he did it laboriously and meticulously. He was an
amiable
man, always in a good humor with a twinkle in his eye except on three
occasions:
when he was mending shoes which, in the winter time, was nearly every
night;
at molasses making time; and when he was killing hogs, which was the
firstcold spell in November. At such times,
we
soon learned there was no use to ask him for any extra-curricular
privileges.
If I wanted to go to Burley Carters and spend the night that was "just
wearing out shoe leather for nothing;" this, while pegging on a new
sole
with wooden pegs he had made himself, or while sewing a ripped seam
with
a waxed end he had made out of shoe thread and beeswax.

He required
the services
of only one other artisan more skillful than himself and that was the
blacksmith,
but that was not often. Occasionally he needed a bull-tongue plow
point,
afalse-coulter, a clevis for the sled, a fire shovel, poker or a
set of horse shoes, and he paid for these services with something other
than money. In fact, we paid for everything we bought with something
other
than money. There did not appear to be any of that commodity in
circulationwhen I was a boy. Since there was no
money,
every man had to develop the kills to make what was needed. Money was
hard
to come by; but, as good luck would have it, a wagoner would
occasionally
come by and ask to spend the night, and for a night's lodging for a man
and team you could often collect fifty cents. In the course of a year
we
may have had $5.00 to $10.00 case income, but I believe the latter
figure
would be excessive. One year our taxes were $3.65, if I remember
correctly.
We didn't have any money and the Sheriff levied on our cow. We did notrequire anything from the store except
salt,
pepper, soda, coffee, lamp oil and an occasional postage stamp. The
merchant
was also postmaster, and we would get any of these items including
postage
stamps for chickens, eggs, possum hides, and Indian arrowheads. The
name
of the merchant-postmaster was Charley Robinette, and he kept the post
office at Democrat, Virginia. Charlie had a boy named Willie who was
about
my age. Willie's Pa paid him 5 cents a day to haul off a hillside in
his
little homemade wagon, and I was sorry my pa was not a rich merchant whocould afford to pay me 5 cents a day
for
some easy work like hauling rock in a wagon. Our land was steep and
rocky,
but we got along very well. For clearing up the new-ground and tending
the crop, Burdine would give us half of it. This enabled us to keep
meal
in the barrel nearly all the time.

We usually
had a
cow. Of course, there were times when she was dry, and occasionally int
he spring of the year she would get on the lift on account of getting
weak
in the hind parts. Sometimes, with the help of a neighbor, we could get
her up and to the barn. If we had some nubbins to mix with her fodder
she
would sometimes get well. That cow, I remember, was very vindictive; if
we didn't get her much fodder she would retaliate and not give us much
milk. Therewere times when the milk tasted like
water,
but Mother said that was because the cow had waded the creek and got
water
in her bag. But that had its advantages; on the days when the cow waded
the creek there was enough milk to go 'round. We did very well on the
Burdine
Carter place. During harvest time Pa generally got a job cradling wheat
for Wes Glass where he could make 25 cents a day, and Mr. Glass paid
him
in streaked meat. About this time Mother got a step stove and she
didn't
have to cook on the fireplace anymore; so, you see, we were getting up
in the world. We were particularly fortunate at threshing time. Some of
the neighbors usually had a straw tick and they would allow us to fill
up our bed ticks with clean, fresh straw.

I am of the
opinion
that the grandfather of 1890 slept more soundly on his straw tick or
shuck
mattress than his grandson of 1960 does on his Beautyrest. He didn't
have
to worry about whether he could meet the monthly mortgage on his home,
his car, his refrigerator, his washing machine and the TV set. Strange
as it may seem, the grandfather was poorer but he had more security
than
the grandson who could be automated out of his job. My first
school
was at Osborn's Chapel and Parolee Livesay was my first and best
teacher.
She said a prayer and we sang:

In the day of all daysWhen the world shall be judgedAnd the chaff from the wheatShall be thoroughly fanned.

And the righteous shall shineAs the stars in the skies,And we shall be at theSaviour's right hand.

And then we got down to business.
The letters
were easy to learn. H was chair; K had a broken back; and all the other
letters had distinguishing and interesting characteristics. When Miss
Parolee
came to our house she always kissed me and I was very embarrassed and
delighted.
In the winter we skated on the ice behind the school house and in the
summer
we played round-town, or long cat or short cat, or dropping hat or hot
pepper. The Democrats played against the Republicans. At the end of the
school year we had an exhibition with plays and speeches. Somelocal Pecos Bill would get pifflicated,
shoot
off his pistol and a posse of outraged citizens would chase him on
horseback
up the road towards Flagpond. Miss Parolee always cried and fainted.
The
women made a closed circle around her and loosened her corset and she
came
to again.

It was
three miles
across Stone Ridge to Osborne's Chapel. One time when I had a stone
bruise,
Ike Carter carried me on his shoulders, my legs around his neck and my
hands holding onto his thick hair. In the fall of the year, Fred,
Elbert
and I went 'possum hunting at night with Burdine Carter's boys, Allen,
Hiram and Burley. At times we would take old Lynn the Carter's dog. At
other times Fred, Elbert and I went alone and we took old Boss, our
dog.
We would often get lost and have difficulty finding our way home. On
one
occasion we got badly frightened when we were stalked through the woods
by a booger which kept just outside our lantern circle of light. If it
followed us home it wasn't able to keep up. My legs were badly
lacerated
by briars and brambles. On one occasion we caught a possum and put him
under the wash tub for the night. When I went to get him the next
morning
he appeared to be dead; but when I tried to pick him uphe suddenly came alive and bit me all
the
way through the finger. Since then I have never had much confidence in
a dead possum.

These are
some disjointed,
unrelated experiences that have helped fill up the years and perhaps
add
a little flavor. I was about thirteen when Grandpa gave Jack Fritz
permission
to build a shack across the creek on the back side of the farm. Up to
that
time the lock manufacturers had done very little business in our
community.
We never locked the crib or smokehouse, nor did our neighbors. But
after
Jack Fritz moved into the shack across the creek, farmers began to
report
theloss of corn, side meat, chickens and
other
comestibles. The finger of suspicion pointed at Jack because he had no
visible means of support. Within a few weeks Will Gobble who ran the
store
at Duffield had sole more locks than he had sold in many years
previously.
And soon thereafter Jack Fritz loaded his worldly effects onto a one
horse
wagon and left for parts unknown. There were those who believed there
was
some connection between those last two named events.

It was
after dark
and we were eating supper. Someone out at the gate said, "Hey, Ed." I
went
out to investigate. It was my cousin Frank. "Jack Fritz has moved out
of
that old shack across the creek," he said. "Let's you and me go over
there
and burn it up before Grandpa lets somebody else moves in." "Let's do,"
I said. We tore some paper off the wall and started a fire in a corner
of the combination living room, bedroom, dining room and kitchen. We
wanted
to make certain it didnot go out so we kept piling on the
wood
and when we went into the yard the fire was coming out the roof and the
sky was lighted up for miles around. We could have been easily
identified
if there had been any close neighbors. We hid in the bushes on the
Harris
place until the light died down. We understood it to be a criminal
offense
to burn a house even though it did belong to your grandpa, so we laid
low
and said nothing. It soon became apparent, however, that the burning of
the house met with universal approval. There was much speculation as to
who did it; and whoever it was, was something of a hero and public
benefactor.

Now there
lived in
the neighborhood a young man, about eighteen, whose name was Johnny
Blair.
Johnny was an illegitimate waif and unwanted who stayed for brief
periods
with whoever would tolerate him, or for as long as they could find him
useful. Johnny strongly felt the need of status, approbation and
approval.
After listening for about two weeks to universal praise for whoever
burned
the shack, Johnny modestly admitted that he did it.

My uncle
Henry was
a horse trader. He was completely devoted to his profession. It
provided
his principal income and was the chief source of his amusement. If
there
was a long interval of time between horse trades he would become
restless
and long to get out on the road. At one such time he told Aunt Susy
that
he would be gone for a few days. Aunt Susy protested that she didn'tlike to stay there by herself since the
place
was somewhat isolated and there were no near neighbors. "There's the
old
shotgun if anybody comes monkeying around let them have it," Uncle
Henry
said. A few nights later there was a terrific noise on the porch as if
someone were tearing off the side of the house. As directed, Aunt Susy
grabbed the shotgun and when the doorknob rattled she aimed it and
pulled
the trigger. She blew a hole in the door about six feet high and as big
as your fist. She went out to look and there was Uncle Henry lying on
the
porch, his facecovered with blood. His hat was
sticking
up in the rafters. Some of the young'uns came after me to go for Doc
Young
who lived across Powell Mountain on Wallens Creek. I went as fast as I
could but the road was rough and the fourteen miles, round trip, took
several
hours. Uncle Henry was still moanin' and groanin' when the doctor came.
When the blood was washed away it was discovered that the shot had
plowed
furrows through the scalp, between the scalp and the skull.After a week he was up an about again.
Uncle
Henry always had a lively sense of humor and just wanted to scare Aunt
Susy a little for the fun of it; but, for some reason, I always wanted
to change the subject with the shooting was mentioned.

Doc Young
was a pretty
good doctor. The only complaint I ever heard was that he charged $3.00
a trip, and he wanted it in cash eventually instead of turnips or dried
pumpkin. Fortunately, some of the neighbors possessed certain magical
powers
and we didn't always need a doctor. If you had the thrash my grandpa
could
cure it by blowing in your mother; or, you had a hemorrhage and sent
for
Jimmac Tomlinson, the bleeding would stop as soon as he crossed the
first
stream of water. My uncle Jack could take off warts by looping a cotton
string around them, and my uncle Jeff was the community barber. He did
his barbering freegratis out in the yard and insisted
that
you sweep up your hair and bury it where the water dripped off the roof
onto the ground. If you failed to do so and the birds used it for
nest-making
material, you would have a headache for the next year. It was certainly
good to have this kind of information. Where Uncle Jeff learned it I
don't
know because he had never been to college.

We were
mining some
felspar and mica in North Carolina. My partner was an ex-doctor and a
mineralogist
who had made and lost a million dollars in Cuba. He wore a beard and a
big mustache. A boyhood friend of William Howard Taft, btu that has
nothing
to do with the story. We were driving up narrow country roads in Avery
County and came to a log house with a large grapevine around it and the
vine full of grapes. I announced that I was going to see if I could buy
some of those grapes for our lunch. I knocked on the door. The woman,
who
was canning tomatoes, asked me to wait on the porch, saying she would
get
them for me as soon as she got through canning. I waited for a very
long
time and would have left without the grapes if it had not appeared
rude.
My partner whose name was Mr. Heighway came and said I would have to
move
the car; that a man with a wagon and team wanted to get by. I told Mr.
Heighway to sit on the porch and wait for the grapes and I would wait
in
the car. I waited and waited, to my impatience, seemed to be hours.
Finally
I saw Mr. Highway coming with a grin on his face. "What's so funny?" I
asked. "Well," he said, "That woman who was canning tomatoes finally
came
around the house, looked at me in astonishment and said, "Are you the
man
who wanted the grapes?" "Yes," I replied. "But you have a beard," she
said.
"I do now," I said, "but I've been waiting here a long time."

It was a
dark, rainy
night. I didn't see the cow that was crossing the road until my fender
hit the side of her head. She spun around like a top. Her owner heard
the
commotion and came running out of the house with a peremptory demand.
"By
God, get out of that car and pay for this cow." then he came closer.
"Hello,
Mr. Johnson," I said. "Why, hello there, Fraley." "Is the cow hurt?" I
asked. "Why, hell no; she had no business being in the road."

I'm not
going to
have time to tell you about the time my Uncle Jack had been bedfast
with
rheumatism for many months. Then one day he looked out the window and
saw
the mules running away with the mowing machine. He forgot his
rheumatism,
jumped out of bed, ran them down, got them cornered and pacified; and
that
was the last of his rheumatism. My Pa had rheumatism too and was in bed
for a long time. Uncle Jack couldn't give him his prescription because
my Pa didn't have a pair of mules or a mowing machine.

I wish I
had time
to tell you about the fellow and his wife who came down off Sandy Ridge
to the store at Cleveland to buy a cook stove. He was driving a pair of
little mules hitched to a wagon. He and his wife and I went back into
the
wareroom. After I had sold him the stove and we had loaded it onto his
wagon, he said, "Would you like to have a drink?" I said I would. His
wife
joined in with alacrity. I took him to be a moonshiner and, since he
had
bought some of my merchandise, I thought it only reasonable that I buy
some of his. So I inquired if he would let me have a ideas. She said,
"Bill,
you'd better not do that; we won't have enough to get back home on."

During the
depression,
Fred wasn't feeling well and the doctor told him he needed rest and
seclusion;
so I left him to mind the store and went to Europe. I ran on to an
Englishman
in Moscow and we traveled together for about a month, becoming very
good
friends. In the next twenty-five years he visited me some three or four
times. A few yeas ago I decided I would go to England and return his
visit.
He met me at the station and we drove out to his house in the country.
We were met in the courtyard by a neatly dressed, attractive lady and
my
friend, Mr. Clement, said, "Ed, this is Dorothy." I put my arm around
her,
kissed her and said I had been looking forward to meeting her for a
quarter
of a century. Mr. Clement put an end to these felicitations when he
stepped
up behind me and whispered, "Dorothy is the maid." Pages 14
to
22.

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